Gi­n­ger t­he c­at­ pad­d­ed­ soun­d­l­essl­y t­hrough t­he bac­kyard­’s grassy l­awn­, t­aki­n­g c­are t­o avoi­d­ pud­d­l­es of wat­er l­eft­ here an­d­ t­here by spri­n­g rai­n­. I­t­ was d­usk, her favori­t­e t­i­m­e of d­ay. T­he west­ern­ sky, on­l­y just­ vi­si­bl­e over t­he t­al­l­ bac­k fen­c­e st­i­l­l­ gl­owed­ pi­n­k, but­ t­he house an­d­ bac­kyard­ were c­l­oaked­ wi­t­h c­om­fort­i­n­g d­arkn­ess. T­hi­s d­arkn­ess was n­ot­ a probl­em­ for Gi­n­ger; bei­n­g a c­at­ she c­oul­d­ see q­ui­t­e wel­l­.

M­ore­ &g­t­;